Special
by Philote
Summary: His teacher used to say that what made them different made them special. But Sam knew that in his case, special was just a nicer term for freak. a young Sam and his visions, hc


**Special**

By Philote

Rating: PG (K+)

Summary: For Sam, sleep had always been even less of a friend than the darkness.

Disclaimer: The characters and situations of _Supernatural_ do not belong to me. I make no money from this story. Please don't sue.

Spoilers: "Pilot," "Home"

Author's Note: This was born of wonderings about Sam's precognitive nightmares, and the thought that perhaps the ones about Jessica were not his first. Feedback is welcomed.

oOo

They weren't far from the city that lived for the night. Though the sky grew dark above, immersed in the Las Vegas lights it was easy to pretend that the darkness never came.

But in the little apartment in the sleepy little town in the Nevada desert, darkness reigned. And though the Winchester men spent many a night away from their beds, on this particular evening sleep was reigning as well.

But it could never quite keep a hold on them as long as it might have liked.

Sure enough, just past midnight in one of two tiny bedrooms off the tinier kitchen, 11-year-old Sam Winchester woke in a panicked sweat with a not-quite-suppressed whimper.

He sat up quickly, fighting with the tangled sheets, his eyes going to the dark ceiling above him.

His breath came in short gasps as he confirmed the absence of fire—and of women.

The ability to think clearly crept back, hindered by the flood of dream images. It wasn't clear; they never were. He dreamed in horror movie clips. Like a preview trailer, with images cut and pasted and a camera lens ranging from blurry to frightfully sharp.

He'd always been prone to nightmares and odd dreams, but not like this. They'd changed in the past year or so. He'd noticed it shortly after he'd begun going out on the hunt with Dad and Dean. They'd intensified after they'd rented this little place, when he no longer spent every night sharing a hotel bed with the comforting weight of his brother.

But it wasn't just their appearance and feel that was odd. No, Sam's dreams previewed very real coming attractions.

That was why this one threw him even more than usual. These dreams had never shown him the past.

His breathing still hitched, and he trembled despite the warm air. After a moment of silent debate he threw off the sheet and climbed from bed. Bare feet disturbed the salt circle as he headed for the door, but it didn't matter. He wouldn't be back tonight.

As he tiptoed through the kitchen, navigating the stove and the small table, he glanced out into the main room where his father slept on the couch.

He was still surprised that Dad had rented this place. When Sam was little, they'd stayed with relatives and friends. As he'd gotten older, they'd lived out of the car and slept in different hotel rooms every week. But they'd settled here a few months ago, John saying that plenty of creatures and oddities were attracted to the surrounding area. And, be it the Las Vegas lights, the lonely desert, or the California lifestyle, it did seem to be true.

They weren't here all the time but it was providing a home base, and a school district. Sam was rather grateful for that. John Winchester's home schooling had always been a bit…unique.

Dad had given him and Dean the small bedrooms. He said it was because they were growing up and deserved to have their own space. Sam expected it was because he wanted to be between his boys and the apartment's only entrance.

There was no sign that Dad was awake as he crept on, stepping into Dean's room and closing the door softly behind him.

He tried to step carefully over Dean's salt circle. But it was dark, only a pale slit of moonlight casting shadows about the room, and he lost his balance. To avoid disturbing the salt he let himself fall forward, landing rather harder than he'd meant to on the bed.

Dean grunted, opening his eyes only long enough to confirm his visitor's identity. "Sammy…" he growled.

But there was no malice there, just a bit of annoyance veiling concern. Dean was used to this. The reaction was a far cry from the one Sam had received that first night. Then Dean had drawn the knife from beneath his pillow before his eyes were even open, bringing Dad in with his pistol drawn and scaring Sam so badly that he'd forgotten the nightmare.

He perched on the side of the mattress, still trying to calm his heartbeat and waiting for more acknowledgement.

Dean rolled slightly onto his back. "Another one?" he asked, voice thick with exhaustion. He grimaced as he shifted to hold his arm out in invitation.

Sam nodded mutely, feeling guilty now. Dean had been thrown pretty hard in an encounter that afternoon, and was certainly as sore as he was tired from last night's lengthy hunt.

Still, he was making the offer, and Sam couldn't bring himself to face the darkness alone. He took extreme care as he lay down and settled as close as possible to Dean's side.

After a few seconds of both of them shifting to get comfortable, Dean curled the arm around his back and they stilled. Sam burrowed his face into his brother's chest and tried to relax.

Then he felt Dean's chin come to rest on his head, and he could practically see the frown in his brother's voice. "Sammy, you're shaking."

Self-consciously Sam shifted again, his knees knocking into his brother's leg before he gave up and moved back to where he'd been. He caught a fistful of Dean's t-shirt, willing the fear to leave. "Sorry, Dean," he whispered.

Dean would know that he wasn't just apologizing for his bony knees.

Dean sighed, breath ruffling Sam's hair. "It's all right." A warm hand started rubbing his back, the rhythmic strokes slow and heavy through his thin pajama top. "You want to talk about it?"

Dean always asked. And that was odd, because Dean wasn't really the touchy-feely talking type.

But Sam was—and he never talked about his nightmares anymore. He expected that his silence was brining out the protector in Dean.

And tonight, as always, Sam swallowed hard and fought an internal battle over the answer.

He usually didn't know the people—or the things—he glimpsed in his dreams. But he would meet them shortly. He still remembered every confusing bit of the first one; the one he'd relived two days later as he'd followed Dean into a decrepit house. Everything was out of order and much sharper in reality, but he'd realized with a shock that he'd seen it all before. When he'd known where the creature was hiding, and had shoved Dean out of the way just before it tried to strike, his brother had been impressed with his hunting skills.

And Sam hadn't mentioned the dream.

He'd just thought it an odd coincidence. But then the second one came, and the one after that. At first, he'd thought that perhaps they were a blessing. A gift to help protect him and his family on their quest.

But somehow, he could never quite convince himself of that.

They upset him more and more as time went on. Still, it took him a long time to admit it to himself.

He wasn't normal.

He wasn't under any illusions about the normalcy of his family by society's standards. But Sam wasn't even normal by _human_ standards.

If there was anything Dad had taught him, it was that supernatural things were bad. The Winchester mission in life was to hunt down and destroy the abnormal things in the world.

Sam knew his father loved him. But on some level, some little voice inside him whispered that the mission took just a little more precedence.

He was a little surer of Dean; pretty sure that Dean would love him no matter what. But then again, Dean was every bit the perfect little soldier. He gave himself whole-heartedly to the fight. He and Dad had a higher purpose: to save innocents by destroying evil. They tried to protect others from their family's fate.

Sam didn't think he was evil. But he also didn't think preternatural powers came without a price.

And, in his darkest moments, he wondered if he was the reason that first thing had come to them at all; if he was the reason Mom had died.

How could he ever tell Dad and Dean that? And how could he ever admit that he might be like the things they hunted?

No, Sam never talked about it.

But Dean offered, every time.

He shook his head, cheek rubbing against thin cotton, and Dean sighed again. "Okay. Go back to sleep, then."

Dean was already halfway there. The hand on his back slowed gradually and then stopped altogether, resting warmly against his lower spine.

Sam lay there, still and quiet, timing his breathing with Dean's. He watched his brother's chest rise and fall, refusing to look at the ceiling.

In and out, in and out. Warm and safe.

At some point, he managed to drift off.

oOo

Sam awoke clutching something that had his brother's scent but was rather softer and lacking in warmth.

He forced his eyes open to frown at the pillow and promptly had to squint against the flood of sunlight from the room's tiny window.

He lay still for a bit. While he hated thinking about his dreams at all, he found it easier to puzzle over them in the light of day.

Eventually, he forced himself to climb out of Dean's bed and wander from the room. For some reason that was always difficult. He felt safe there, though he knew it was purely psychological and made no logical sense, especially when Dean wasn't actually in it.

He could hear the shower running as he passed the bathroom. He crossed to the front window, peering out to see movement under the front of the car. John was changing the oil. That left Dean in the shower, and Sam alone for the moment.

That was good. He had something he needed to do.

With a paranoid glance around the apartment and at the closed bathroom door, Sam crept to the couch and fished around in the end table drawer until he found what he was looking for.

He had no memories of Mom. Most days he couldn't picture her face without aid of a photograph, and whenever he tried, he feared the image was entirely his own making. And he didn't have any pictures of his own. When he wanted to see her, he had to find Dad's.

The journal was beginning to show wear. He held it almost reverently, but less like an invaluable book and more like something he didn't feel he had the right to be touching.

He flipped through carefully, past fading newspaper articles and sketches of creatures. Finally he found what he'd been seeking as an old photograph slid out from between the pages.

He ignored Dad, little Dean, and his infant self and focused on Mom's face.

In his nightmare, the lady's features had sharpened for only a brief instant. He didn't remember the face all that well; he probably wouldn't recognize her if he saw her again. He hadn't thought she was his Mom, but he'd needed to be certain.

So…some other woman, then. He wasn't sure if he should be happy or upset about that.

Maybe it didn't mean anything. Maybe he'd seen that woman somewhere, and just incorporated her face because he couldn't handle Mom's. Maybe it was a normal dream, just his subconscious trying to deal with what he knew and yet couldn't remember about his mother's death.

Somehow, he couldn't quite get himself to believe that, either.

He started when the apartment door opened and hastily shoved the picture back in as he closed the book. He froze as John came in, the man's gaze immediately settling on him.

It would only make things worse to attempt to hide it, so he just sat there with the journal in his lap, studying the coffee table intently.

He glanced up briefly as the footsteps approached, and was surprised at the lack of anger he found. "It's all right," his father said, though the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "It's your book as much as it's mine and Dean's."

Sam watched him with wide eyes. Sure, he'd never been told not to touch. He'd only been told to be careful. But this thing was his Dad's life.

"Thanks," he finally said softly, but turned and replaced it reverently despite the words.

There was a long pause. Then, "You okay, Sammy?"

He glanced up again, eyes caught in his father's gaze.

Dean chose that moment to emerge from the bathroom, back in his sweatpants and t-shirt and rubbing a towel at his hair. He glanced between his father and brother as he tossed the towel over a nearby chair. His still-drying hair stuck up in several directions, making Sam grin.

Dean cast him a narrow look that had him grinning harder before turning to John. "You didn't finish the car without me, did you?"

John didn't answer directly, but studied his eldest closely instead. "You're supposed to be taking it easy," he admonished.

Dean raised an eyebrow, glancing pointedly at the clock and then down at his pajamas, clearly of the opinion that an extra hour of sleep should have earned him the right to work on the car.

Their father did not seem to agree. With a sigh he motioned to Dean. "Come over here and let me check your ribs."

"Dad, I'm fine."

John just stared at him, and Dean stared back for a long moment before giving in with an exaggerated eye roll. He came to stand in front of him and allowed his father to raise the t-shirt.

The lower right side of his rib cage was mottled with purplish bruising. Dean hissed softly in pain as John ran gentle fingers over the area, checking once more for breaks.

Sam unconsciously rubbed at his own ribs in empathy, now shocked that Dean hadn't told him to get lost last night. It must have hurt to hold him as he had.

Dean glanced over and caught him watching. He tilted his head and shot him a chastising look, as if he knew exactly what he was thinking. He shook his head, looking amused.

Sam rolled his eyes slightly, but got the message. Like Dean would ever let a little pain stop him from doing anything he wanted.

"Breathing still okay?" John was asking as he prodded.

Dean nodded.

"No internal pain?"

Dean answered affirmatively, then looked back to Sam. They locked eyes, Dean a bit more serious now. They never talked about Sam's nighttime forays into his room, except for Dean to confirm that he was all right in the mornings. There was a clear question of concern there.

Sam allowed the corner of his lips to twitch upward in response.

Dean studied him for a moment before giving him a nod and soft grin.

With his attention still on Dean's ribs, John commented casually, "You know, if you two were going to share a bed anyway, I could have gotten us a one bedroom and saved on the rent."

Both boys' attention shot to him, each instinctively adopting a wide-eyed innocent look.

Of course, it was foolish to think that he wouldn't have checked on them when he first got up. Probably even more foolish to assume that he hadn't awakened in the night and known exactly what was going on.

He seemed to move on from the topic before either responded, finishing his pseudo-exam and pulling Dean's shirt back down for him. "Okay. I believe that you're all right, but I still want you to rest today."

Dean grunted his unhappiness with that, but offered a surly, "Yes, sir."

John clasped his neck and gave him a gentle shake that brought the grin back. Then he turned casually to Sam. "Are you sure there's nothing you need to talk about Sammy?"

There was no accusation there, only concern. Sam stared between the two of them, and actually hesitated. He'd just had a dream about a woman dying the same way Mom had. If there was ever a time to tell them, it was now.

For some reason he thought of Mrs. Wheeler, the teacher he'd had for a few consecutive months of first grade. She used to say that what made them different made them special.

But he knew that in his case, special was just a nicer term for freak.

He stared at the two caring, worried faces. The same two caring, worried faces that he'd seen harden with hatred and grim determination whenever they were faced with a supernatural thing.

And somewhere deep inside him, that little voice whispered that while they might not hate him, they would never love him the same.

So he forced a smile. "No. I'm fine."

John and Dean glanced at each other. Sam knew that look. It was the Sammy's-so-sensitive look that came whenever they worried over him, the look that meant they were putting on the kid gloves because they didn't quite know how to handle him.

He watched them apprehensively as Dad came closer, settling before him on the coffee table before beginning a rather awkward speech. "I know this is hard at first. But you get stronger by the day, and you've really got a talent for it."

Sam tried not to cringe, knowing his 'talent' was really foresight.

John interpreted his reaction the wrong way and reached out, gripping his shoulder. "I don't want you to be afraid. Dean and I aren't going to let anything happen to you."

Sam just stared, unable to find words.

Dean plopped down beside him. "Yeah. We're kinda used to having you around," he teased.

An ache set in in the vicinity of Sam's young heart. "I know," he said, only it came out weakly and barely above a whisper. There was so much he could, probably _should_, say. Instead, he cleared his throat and said simply. "I know. I'll be okay."

His eyes wandered to his hands as the conversation continued non-verbally above him. Finally, John released his shoulder with a squeeze.

Dean reached out and mussed his hair, prompting Sam to reach up ever so calmly and begin playing with the little strands that were still standing up in every direction off his brother's head. Dean tolerated it for a moment before he growled and pounced.

John Winchester sighed in mock exasperation, but there was a touch of affection evident on his face. "Easy," he reminded Dean with the requisite parental admonishment, and then he left them to their version of play.

And, pinned to the couch with big brother threatening to tickle, a giggling Sam felt reassured that he had made the right choice.

oOo

Eleven years later, in a little apartment in a college town in southern California, 22-year-old Sam Winchester woke in a panicked sweat with a not-quite-suppressed whimper.

At his side Jessica stirred and turned towards him, blue eyes fluttering open in confusion. "Sam? Are you okay?"

It took him an endless moment to sort reality from the dream, to realize that she really was beside him—and not above him. His eyes darted frantically around the room.

No flames.

He lay back, fighting to breathe normally. By this point Jessica had risen up on an elbow, looking at him in concern. "Sam?"

He tried to smile at her. "I'm okay. Just a weird dream. Sorry I woke you."

His voice sounded level enough, but he couldn't take his eyes from her face. Internally, emotions and realizations churned so that he felt almost ill.

He must have hidden it well for she relaxed and smiled teasingly. "Let me guess. You're trying to take a final in a class you've never even been to. And you're naked."

He chuckled despite himself, though it sounded a little hysterical. He'd had that dream at the end of last semester. "Yeah, something like that," he fibbed.

She lay back down, cuddling against his side. He curled an arm around her.

Unfortunately, the position left him staring at the ceiling.

When he'd first met Jessica, he'd had an odd sense of déjà vu. It was as if he'd known her from somewhere. But the glimpse long ago had been so short, and he'd put it so far from his mind…

His grip around her tightened almost convulsively. She squeezed him in return.

"Love you," she whispered, drifting back towards sleep.

"Love you too," he responded, though it sounded hollow and far away. Then, he was left with nothing to do but think.

He'd never told Dad and Dean about the precognitive quality of the nightmares. But they had all come to pass, usually within a few weeks. That single dream of the woman and the fire was the only one that had never occurred. He'd finally gotten himself to believe that it really was just a mix of memories and Dad's stories.

And, as he'd grown, the dreams had eventually lessened and then gone away entirely. He'd fought for it though. He'd thrown himself whole-heartedly into activities normal kids enjoyed, and began balking at the hunting and training. He was so sure that if he tired hard enough to fit into societal norms, the human normalcy he craved would surely come as well.

Ironically, in the end, it was this that had cost him Dad and Dean.

But it was one thing to have them angry with him for leaving. It would have been another entirely to have them hate him for what he was.

Or rather, what he'd _been_.

After all, he was out of that, now. He was as normal as he could be.

Firmly, he told himself that those nightmares were long over. It might not have even been Jessica all those years ago; he was probably over-reacting. This was only a dream.

It sounded good. But the little voice was back, nagging that he was lying to himself.

Sam did not get back to sleep that night. Sleep was the enemy once again. The darkness itself seemed more threatening as well, without a protector. He kept wary eyes on shadows and listened for every small sound. He was the lone protector here, and that scared him more than he cared to admit.

For the first time since he'd adjusted to college life, and despite the beautiful girl wrapped in his embrace, the loneliness was overwhelming.

oOo


End file.
